You are the quintessential suburban wife or divorcee and mom who lives a safe and steady life, preaches the good fight full of honesty and hard work and harbors lifelong notions and anecdotes of the American dream.
Yet, secretly, you voted Trump. You are loathe to admit it, your friends would disown you, your family wouldn’t speak to you, your own children wouldn’t touch your thoughtful homemade dinners.
You need an outlet. Bring that frustration over to me. Put your shiny tacky maga hat in the bottom of your bag. Keep your flimsy underwear red. I won’t remove it, not all of it. I’ll just make space down there, your skirt lowered, so my fingers can get in there, make a bit of a mess. You are telling me everything about your oh so sweet soul and how you lost your conscience but think you’ve really found it now with your maga connections. You tell me how hot it is to admit what you did and how proudly slutty it has changed you.
I bring a toy for you. Cheap and not great to look at, it barely works but I make it work. You get to keep it. I haven’t decided if I let you keep it or not.
Me: tall, educated, fit, discreet, adventurous, charismatic.
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